


Dollhouse

by EnviedFable



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adrenaline Junkie, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Cutting, Dark, Dark Magic, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, POV Alternating, Past Child Abuse, Trauma, dollhouse - Freeform, prefects
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-10-03 18:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20457839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnviedFable/pseuds/EnviedFable
Summary: When a fifth year transfiguration project takes an ugly turn, obsession and competitveness blind Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. To the folly of their own egos, they disregard blatant warnings and venture deeper into a branch of magic that they do not understand. The Dollhouse Project was designed to help them with their O.W.L.'s, but rather than aid them, the two find themselves at the mercy of curiosity. What helps you can hurt you, and what hurts you can help you; the trick is telling the difference between the two.





	1. Chapter One

“Ron, what’s the time?” Hermione asked nervously, fiddling with her new prefect badge adorned to her robe. He continued to ignore her. “_Ronald_.” She pressed.

“Give it a rest Hermione, we’re not going to be late.” Ron snapped, returning to his conversation with Harry.

She huffed and turned towards the compartment window, trying to recount the steps it would take to reach the prefect meeting. She touched her badge again, feeling it pull on her new robe. Today had to be perfect, and she’d spent every last galleon earned from her summer job to make sure she looked the part. Hermione Granger wasn’t vain in the least, but for once, her outfit mattered. How they perceived her mattered.

She pulled out the same book from her bag for the fourth time, laying it on her lap and flipping through the pages. The words looked like winged keys fluttering around; she couldn’t make sense of them. Her mind was too preoccupied with being late. It didn’t help when she heard the shuffling of feet in the hallway.

“Ron—”

“Bloody hell, woman. I told you we’re not going to be—” Quickly pulling his pocket watch out, Ron’s eyes widened. “We’re late.”

He scooted towards the door as Hermione and Harry exchanged a glance. His disappointment was clear. “We’ll be back soon,” she promised him, but only received a quick nod in return.

For someone that wasn’t concerned with being late, Ron Weasley certainly moved quickly. Perhaps it was his growth spurt over the summer that lengthened his stride; something she hadn’t accounted for in her little plan. She wouldn’t be able to hide behind him at that pace. Clutching the handle of the pocket door, she used the leverage to move through and close it behind her. Putting weight on her right side, she carefully walked down the corridor.

Up ahead, she saw the frame of a tall boy leaning into a compartment. He pulled his head out at the sound of her footsteps; the sneer on his face was rotten, not that Malfoy was ever anything less.

“Looks like they’ll let just about anyone be a prefect these days,” Draco spat as she walked by, noting Theo and Blaise in the compartment. “Deserving or not.”

She sped up despite the ache in her leg. Malfoy met her pace, even when she slowed back down.

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” She scowled, feeling his shoulder brush against hers as he got ahead.

“As a matter of fact, I do, and I don’t want to be the last one there.” She watched as he pulled a badge from his robe pocket. “Can’t forget this.”

Perfect. Just perfect. She was late _ and _had to deal with Malfoy for the rest of fifth year. It made sense, sure, but she still didn’t anticipate it. He was always second to her in shared classes. He was probably better at not getting caught breaking the rules than she was. Hermione was so preoccupied with how her first day as a prefect would go that she hadn’t pondered who the others would be.

As not to be outdone, she caught up to Malfoy as they neared the door to the head car. Petty as it was, she tried bursting through ahead of him, which ended in a stubborn collision. Up ahead, Ron was rolling his eyes and Pansy shot Hermione a dreadful glare as Draco managed to burst through first, causing her left leg to scrape against the compartment door.

_ Healing charm _, she thought, pressing one hand against her leg as she sat down next to Ron.

It was going to be a long year.

*** * ***

Guiding the first years to meet Hagrid at the boats took longer than expected. Hermione and Ron met up with Harry at the carriages, and they were the last ones to leave. She sat in the carriage replaying everything she heard at the prefect meeting, already planning out her entire year in her head. Ron didn’t seem phased about their newfound duties, which was something she couldn’t quite understand. When they arrived at the castle, Hermione tapped her wand against her leg and muttered _ episkey _under her breath, feeling the slices in her skin mend back together. A sigh of relief escaped her; she’d gone an entire summer without magic, something she wished she’d never have to do again.

While the Great Hall was still mesmerizing with its charmed ceiling and wondrous food, everything felt repetitive. Seeing the excited first year students didn’t fill her with the same sense of elation and intrigue as it once did. She caught Draco’s eyes from the Slytherin table and shot him a sour look before filling up her plate.

Harry and Ron’s conversation didn’t include her, and she couldn’t help but notice their smiles, their joy at being back in this castle. After one sip of pumpkin juice, she couldn’t help but grin. They were back together again. At once, she was flooded with excitement at the prospect of her new classes. Even the knowledge of Dolores Umbridge being their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher didn’t bother her. She spent all summer waiting for this, and dammit, it was going to be a good year.

*** * ***

“Nervous Harry?” Hermione asked as he tripped over the portrait frame on their way out of Gryffindor tower.

“A little.” He admitted, eyes shifting around as he got lost in thought again. “I have no idea who’s going to show up to tryouts.”

“Hey,” Ron interrupted.

“Well of course you’re going to show up, but I still have to see who else tries out.”

“I’m certain you’ll find the perfect match for the team,” Hermione tried her best to encourage him.

“I’m right here, you know.” Ron said with a bit of a laugh.

“And I’ll be right there cheering you on.”

“That’s all well and good, but we need to hurry before Seamus eats all the biscuits.”

In the Great Hall, Hermione hurriedly pored over her schedule while Ron argued with Seamus over the number of biscuits he’d eaten as they both struggled for the last one. Hermione looked into her bag to make sure her transfiguration books were front and center. It was her first class, one of ten this year, and everything had to start off on the right foot.

“Have your books ready? Transfiguration is first on the schedule today.” Hermione brought up.

“Yeah, with Slytherin,” Harry scowled, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Ron and I have to stop by the tower to get our books first.”

“Well, I won’t be late because of you two. I’ll try to save you a seat.”

Being so obsessed over planning out her schedule, Hermione had nearly forgotten to eat. She scoffed down a large sip of coffee and a few eggs quickly before grabbing Seamus’ last biscuit from his plate, and heading to the hallway.

“By all means, I don’t mind,” Seamus scoffed as Hermione raised her hand to simply signal that she’d heard him.

Transfiguration was by far one of the most difficult subjects, and McGonagall was perhaps the most rigorous of all the professors. That never stopped Hermione from getting top marks; the thrill of being pushed to her limits was always invigorating. As she stepped through the doors, ready to hit the ground running, she stopped in her tracks.

_ Dollhouses _ , she thought. _ Why? _

Each desk had a dollhouse of different shapes and sizes, colors and layouts. Hermione skirted around the room, inspecting them one by one: each were unique, intriguing, and held an aura that hovered around them like a halo. As she got to her seat, she heard footsteps behind her as her classmates scurried in.

“We’re playing with toys?” Malfoy howled while nudging Theo’s arm. “Bit of an easy first day, don’t you think Professor?”

“Don’t mistake my class for Divination, Mr. Malfoy—there’s always more than meets the eye.” McGonagall glared him down over the rim of her glasses.

Harry and Ron scampered into class, quickly finding seats next to Hermione as the room began to rest. “What’s all this, then?” Harry whispered, feeling completely out of the loop already. Hermione shrugged as McGonagall gathered their attention.

“In case you haven’t noticed, fifth year is arguably your most important. The grades you earn on your O.W.L.’s will determine your entry into further classes and career opportunities. I’ve created this first term project to express the practicality of each and every spell you will find on the transfiguration portion of the test. This will account for seventy percent of your term grade.”

Even Malfoy didn’t have something snarky to say, everyone just stayed quiet and snapped to full attention.

“You will lend pieces of yourself to this assignment, slowly watching the blank slate I will provide you transform into a replica of your family home. While the prospect may seem simple in nature, I assure you that it’s anything but. These will be some of the most difficult, taxing spells you’ve ever performed. You will create something completely unique to you, just like the finished dollhouses on your desks.”

Hermione took a brief moment to examine the house in front of her. She could feel something in that aura like a mark of the student who completed it, but nothing truly caught her eye. It seemed bland and inanimate, void of the personal touch McGonagall described.

“Despite this being a personal project, you will be working in pairs. Your partner will be the counterbalance, ensuring you don’t get lost in your own dollhouse. As alluring as it may seem to continue, I strongly urge you not to get carried away. Fulfill the requirements of your projects, and leave it at that.”

McGonagall raised her wand, and sent little papers fluttering all around the room, landing on each desk. “You and your partner have until one week before Christmas break to submit your projects,” she added, opening her spellbook to continue the class.

Hermione took a deep breath before flipping the parchment over. She would have preferred anyone else, even Ron knowing she’d be handling the brunt of the work. Anyone but him.

“Who did you get, Hermione?” Harry asked as her head thud on the desk. He weaseled the parchment out from under her forehead and looked it over.

_ Malfoy. _


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After realizing that their project assignment is a living nightmare, Hermione and Draco look for alternate ways to complete the project on their own.

Theo practically ripped the parchment from Malfoy’s hands. There was a brief silence before he chuckled, noting Draco’s disbelief.

“I thought I had it bad with Saint Potter,” he said, unable to shield his amusement before dropping the paper in front of Draco, “but you… you’re never going to get through this.”

Draco’s eyes shifted over to Hermione, who appeared to have fallen asleep on her desk or died from duress. “There’s no way I’ll be spending my free time with a swot like her,” Draco growled under his breath.

Biding his time until the end of class with gritted teeth, Draco leapt up the second that the room cleared. Before McGonagall had a chance to gather her things and leave, his hands thumped down on her desk.

“You can’t be serious,” he said abruptly, garnering her attention. “There’s no way that this is going to work.”

“I second that.” Hermione said, her hands slamming down on the other side of the desk. “We’ll just as soon mame each other before making it halfway through this project.” Draco nodded feverishly beside her.

“Oh come now,” Minerva began, “you two can’t truly be this ridiculous, can you? You’re behaving like first years. Regardless of your petty rivalry, academic or otherwise, I stand by my decision. If you want to pass this term, and subsequently, your O.W.L.’s, you will turn in your projects  _ on time _ . If you wish to waste time squabbling about, that’s your decision. It’ll only take you longer. If you ask me, the better you get along, the quicker this will be. Two brilliant minds such as yourselves should have no trouble putting your differences aside. Even as adults,” McGonagall’s eyes flicked up to focus on the door, “you’ll end up working with those who you don’t particularly care for.”

“Hem hem,” Umbridge’s voice carried from behind them.

“Now then, if you’ll excuse me, I apparently have a meeting to attend to.” She said while marching out of the classroom.

They stormed off, Draco flicking his wand and igniting the parchment on his desk. Hermione scoffed loudly, releasing a long sigh. “When will we be meeting to get this over with?”

“You honestly think I have any intention of spending time with you? I’ll be doing this on my own.” Draco shouted, echoing in the hallway.

“Fine by me!”

Before he could reach his next class, he spotted Theo and his big dumb grin in the hallway. “Don’t you dare say a word,” Draco raised his finger, giving a stern warning.

“You do realize that you can’t do this alone, right?” Theo matched his rather fast pace.

“I’ve got this under control. Not the first difficult thing I’ve had to do alone.”

“It’s not difficult, your moron; it’s impossible. Didn’t you hear anything? The spells need to be performed in tandem. They won’t work with one caster.”

“And you don’t think I can figure out a way around that? I’ll just have you play the other part.”

“As exhilarating as that sounds, I have my own project to attend to,” Theo said, a bit of an edge to his voice. “Besides, that’s not how it works. Hermione’s the only one who can cast them with you.”

Draco stopped in his tracks, fists curled by his sides. “Sly old girl,” he muttered. “Of course she charmed the papers.”

“And you were too blazingly angered to notice.”

“I’ll give her this one. Nevertheless, it won’t stop me from doing this alone.”

At least, that’s what he attempted. After his last class, Draco spent hours in the Slytherin common room poring over Theo’s notes, reading about the magical construction of these blasted dollhouses. Everything was charmed, locked behind spells he’d sparsely heard of or had never tested himself.

Another failed cast on the materials McGonagall had provided sent him reeling. His arm was exhausted from repeated casts; his head was absolutely splitting from the stress and realization that perhaps he couldn’t actually do it alone. It wasn’t that progress was slow—literally nothing had moved, not even an inch. The last four hours were a waste of time.

The thud of glass on the wooden table startled him.

“Admit it.” Theo said, holding a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey in his right hand and a lopsided smile on his lips. “Or I’m not sharing.”

“Shut up and pour me a drink while I concede to the idea, will you?”

As if he could hear the bottle opening, Blaise slipped into the room and plopped down beside Draco. He reached for the glass Theo just filled when Draco swatted his hand away. “I never said I was sharing with you,” he grinned before downing half of his drink, feeling the air singe his taste buds as the burn encapsulated his throat. This is what was missing from today.

“Suit yourself,” Blaise smiled wildly, pulling a flask out from his robe.

“Cheeky bastard.”

“He comes prepared,” Theo added. “We’re going to need it. Who’d you get paired up with again?”

“Long--”

“Don’t say it. I don’t want to feel  _ that _ sorry for you.” Draco threw back the rest of his drink, smashing it down on the table. “Barkeep, you’re slacking.”

An hour and two more drinks passed before a novel idea slipped through a drunken tone. Blaise recalled an ever-so-helpful book in the library, an old dusty tome that might hold a way to bypass the charms. If it couldn’t help Draco build the dollhouse, perhaps it could grant him the ability to disenchant Hermione Granger as his partner.

In a slight stupor, Draco made his way to the library, elated at the idea of being freed from this fresh nightmare. Blaise told him the title of the book,  _ Toy Enchantment: A Comprehensive Guide to the Art of Imagination Manipulation _ , though he admittedly only opened it for a brief moment before realizing it wasn’t  _ those  _ types of toys.

Draco wasn’t certain if his excitement was at getting an advantage over Granger and finally putting her in her place, or the last third of the firewhiskey that he put behind a stack of school books back in the common room. Either way, a form of relief was around the corner.

The library was closing soon. He had maybe ten minutes to scan the endless aisles, and so he began at the one spot where Blaise last remembered seeing the book. Apart from a few second year students studying at a large table, there was practically nobody else here. He shuddered at the thought of anyone assuming he was here to study. Malfoy’s had an innate intellect, after all.

He shook his head to rid the thoughts before spotting the book in the transfiguration section, grasped between Hermione Granger’s fingers as she tried to pass by him quickly.

“What’ve you got there?” He asked rather loudly, ignoring common library etiquette.

“None of your business.” She replied, but of course, she’d beaten him to the chase by mere seconds.

“Granger!” He shouted, alerting everyone. “That was my book, how dare you pull it right out of my hands like that?”

“Stop it,” she whispered, trying to hide her embarrassment, which only made her look all the more guilty.

“Madam Pince,” Draco called out, but she was already quickly approaching. “What kind of a library are you running here?”

“Shut up, Malfoy.” Hermione had lost her sense of propriety as her voice echoed throughout the room. “You cannot simply walk in here and assume you have first dibs on everything.”

“Well, actually,” Draco said, leaning in close enough that she caught the hint of alcohol on his breath, “I can.” He smirked before ripping the book out of her hands. She lunged forward to take it back.

“That’s enough out of both of you,” Madam Pince scowled, as loudly as a librarian could. She plucked the book from Draco’s hands. “Five points from each of your houses. Leave my library at once.”

Hermione immediately choked on her own words, “But, but I—”

“Will be leaving now.” Madam Pince reiterated, storming off with the book tucked under her side.

“Ugh, I can’t believe you,” Hermione scowled as they stepped out into the hallway. “You’re such a prat. Now we’ll both fail this damned project.”

“I don’t recall you being all-too-willing to work together, either.” Draco said, arms crossed.

“You just couldn’t deal with being bested, could you? I found the book, I got to it first, and you just couldn’t stand it. You could have had the book once I was done, but sharing the glory isn’t good enough for you, is it?”

“You don’t even know if that book had a way to solo navigate this whole mess.”

“Neither did you.”

They both paused for a second.  _ Right, neither did I _ .

Hermione leaned back against the wall and released a deep sigh, not looking at anything in particular as she slid to the floor. Knees pulled up to her chin, she came to a realization.

“McGonagall’s right you know,” she began, “we’re never going to finish this if we don’t stop fighting.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” He sighed, mimicking her tone. Draco leaned against the wall beside her.

“It’s not like we have to pretend to be friends or anything. We don’t even have to try and have a good time; we just have to perform a few spells together a couple times a week, and be done with it. If we do this quickly without bickering, it’ll be like it never happened. Project over, everything back to normal.”

“One condition,” he said, pushing off the wall and turning around, “nobody can see us working together. I won’t have my reputation sullied by being seen with you.”

“That goes both ways, Malfoy.”

“Room of Requirements, after dinner. Don’t let anyone spot you.” Draco huffed, signifying his discontent with the entire situation before he stormed off toward the dungeon stairs.

_ All this does is put me in a position to stay one step ahead.  _ Draco couldn’t help but grin as he descended the staircase.  _ I refuse to play second fiddle to filth like her. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think so far. I'm trying to stick to a weekly post at the moment on either Friday/Saturday night. Kudos and comments are appreciated.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They thought coming to terms with the project details would make it easier to get along. Instead, Hermione and Draco find that they can't make a single spell work in their favor.

Dragging her sleeve across her brow, Hermione released a long sigh and took a second to breathe. Had they missed dinner? She couldn’t really tell. This room didn’t offer much of a view, and it was easy to lose track of time. From the moment she stepped in the Room of Requirements, she expected to do most of the work and get things moving rather quickly, but it wasn’t that simple.

There was a lot to work on.

They weren’t syncing properly with the rhythm of the spells.

Her casting motions were all wrong.

Draco wouldn’t stop complaining the entire time.

If that wasn’t bad enough, she was just so bloody exhausted. “This is bullshite,” he huffed, pacing angrily after their most recent failed attempt.

“At this rate, we won’t even have the foundation done by Halloween.” She breathed, and fell back into a chair that the room conjured up. “What was McGonagall thinking? If the two top students in her class can’t figure this out, how is anyone else supposed to? We must be missing something.”

“We’ve gone over the instructions seven times; we haven’t missed a bloody thing. I think that witch has cursed us.”

“I believe it’s your rhythm that’s a curse.”

“ _ My  _ rhythm?” He scoffed in disbelief. “ _ My  _ rhythm? What about your wand movements? You’ve got to get that wrist under control.”

“Oh yes, Malfoy, it’s completely my fault. After all, you possess all the knowledge and skill to do this on your own, don’t you? Forgive me.” Hermione rolled her eyes, sliding further down the chair. “This is torture.”

“Again,” he sighed, trying to hype himself up. “Let’s try it again.”

“Fine, but I’m counting down this time.”

They readied themselves for another attempt, but their morale was admittedly depleted. It wasn’t long before they’d given up for the evening. While casting for hours on end was physically and emotionally exhausting, neither could even turn in for the night. Hermione glared at Draco as they were both set to leave the room.

“So… see you in twenty minutes, then?” She grumbled, watching his eyes widen.

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. It’s like I just can’t get rid of you.”

* * *

Draco was getting more insufferable by the minute. The two of them trudged along through the hallways, dragging their feet as the weight of their project attempts bore down on them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted,” he muttered.

“You’ve never worked with these types of spells before,” Hermione sighed, catching Draco’s eye. “When McGonagall said these were personal projects, she meant it—we’re giving our energy into this. According to that book, we’re building this from memories.”

“I thought you didn’t have time to read the book.”

“Thanks to you, I didn’t, but I managed to skim the first few pages. Just enough to get an idea of what we’re dealing with, just not  _ how  _ to deal with it. These spells draw off of your magic. It’s only temporary, and once McGonagall seals the houses at the end of the project, we won’t feel that drain anymore.”

“What do you mean ‘seal the project’?”

“Picture it like this. Every time we cast on the materials, it’s like lending a morsel of our magic to the dollhouse. Once it’s done and McGonagall seals the house shut, while dually disenchanting us as partners, we’ll feel those morsels return to us.”

“Makes sense,” Draco said rather quickly, surprising her. “Those dollhouses looked like houses; not homes. Abandoned in a sense.”

“Exactly.”

The remainder of their rounds were uncomfortably quiet, but at the very least, they weren’t arguing. She couldn’t handle a confrontation tonight. It gave her time to think, perhaps too much time. Before she had the chance to slip into a string of negative thoughts, she spotted Ron on the staircase headed up their way.

“Mione,” Ron said as he noticed her, flashing a wide smile. “Git,” he gestured to Malfoy.

“Weasel.”

“Already done with your rounds?” She asked him. “We’ve one more floor to patrol.”

“Well that’s good; you look worse for wear. Everything alright?”

“Just tired. We spent most of the day working on the transfiguration project.” Hermione sighed, awaiting a good night’s sleep.

“I imagine you two have already put a good dent in it. Seamus and I are still working on the first floor.”

“Look on the bright side,” Malfoy sneered, “it won’t take long to build the hobble you live in. Toss some sticks and mud together, and McGonagall won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“At least it’s easier to build than a manor,” Ron grinned. “I reckon I’ll have my project completed and submitted weeks ahead of you, Ferret.”

“With a partner like Finnigan, I’ll be surprised if you turn in anything other than ash.”

“Slate doesn’t burn. Besides, he’d take his own house down with it, and we’d have to start from scratch.”

Hermione looked a bit perplexed. “I’m sorry, what?”

“When we put the slates together, Seamus built his a little too close to mine.”

She exchanged glances with Draco as they both came to the same realization. “See you later,” she said to Ron, and the two were off, rushing back to the Room of Requirements. They’d been so dead set on doing this separately that even when they were working together, they were still acting like they were two different projects.

“I can’t believe we didn’t think of it,” Hermione huffed as she caught her breath, closing the door behind her.

Draco walked up to the long table where their separate slate bases and materials were laying, and slid them together. It didn’t seem like anything happened.

“Ready to give this another go?” He asked, one mischievous eyebrow raised.

Hermione raised her wand and inhaled sharply, certain that she wouldn’t mess up her form this time around. With a quick nod, they both recited the spell under their breath,  _ statura memoriae _ , and the slates began to glow.

Miniature grass blades rose out of the seemingly dry stone. Hermione noticed the white picket fence along the edges of her slate begin to form. A sentiment of home would normally be enough to force a grin, and perhaps a few years ago that would have been true. Instead, the pit of her stomach clenched as if it were filled with stones. Gritting her teeth and clenching her wand, she noticed Draco glaring at her—she was being too obvious.

“It was so simple,” she said, composing her voice. “How much more difficult do you think we’re going to make this for ourselves?”

“The rest of this project is going to be bad enough,” Draco sighed, staring at the perimeter of his own dollhouse foundation. “We don’t need to make it any harder on ourselves. That’s it. We cracked it, let’s call it a night.”

“But we’ve only just started, and I—”

“Night.” He said, rather coldly as he walked straight for the door.

It closed tight behind him, leaving her in the midst of what she had to create. It was just a fence for now. In the coming months, it would be a reminder of everything.

_ Dammit Minerva… as if I didn’t have enough to deal with. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently still aiming for Friday/Saturday night updates once a week. In the next few chapters, you're going to see why the entire work is called "Dollhouse," and I can't wait for you to venture forward with me. Thank you for all the support, kudos and comments are always appreciated.
> 
> No beta. All mistakes are my own.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months have come and gone. With the end of their project seemingly in sight, Draco and Hermione do their best to uphold the silent rapport they created, until paranoia sets in.

The autumn chill stuck with him long after he entered the castle. The last two months of working with Hermione had been quieter than expected. Draco had barely said a word to her outside of tandem spellcasting, and she’d followed suit. They were following their agreement; simply working together to get the project done as quickly as possible.

With the frames completely built, now came the heavy work. Draco had spent the last few weeks working in furniture, lighting, flooring and windows, all through spellcasting. The intricacies of the dollhouse were unsettling. Divots that he remembered in the windowsill in the parlor were there, even though he hadn’t particularly thought to place them. The split in the cupboard upstairs was prominent, but he didn’t have that little detail in his thoughts when he created it. It was taking more from him than he was giving.

After a brief rest during Halloween, Draco still didn’t feel fully ready to continue giving himself to the project. If they were lucky, they’d be done nearly six weeks early. Through his classes with Professor McGongagall, he heard about pacing yourself throughout the duration of the project to avoid burnout. Draco was still teeming about this whole ordeal, from the enchanted papers to Minerva’s refusal when he asked to disenchant Hermione Granger as his partner.

Moving his arms felt heavy. The steps up the stairs to the Room of Requirements were exhausting. _ A few more sessions _ , he told himself, _ I’ll be done with this soon enough_.

For once, the Gryffindor stickler was running late. Without the ability to cast any of these spells on his own, Draco huffed and meandered around the room. As annoying as she was, he could always rely on her punctuality.

He’d been in this room a hundred times at this point. Nothing really stood out anymore. Nothing, of course, except for their projects. Every time he tried to look around Hermione’s house, she would direct him away. Draco looked at the picket fence, the uneven brush strokes of white paint, and the unkempt tall blades of grass rising up between the posts. Before he had a chance to look in through the bay window on the front of the house, he heard something.

He turned to the door, but nobody was there. Hermione wasn’t here yet.

When he turned back to her dollhouse, he saw his own out of his peripherals. The slates were still attached, though they’d built their houses as far away from each other’s as possible. He heard a whisper of sorts, then two, then a flurry of a dozen quiet voices. Draco couldn’t make out what they were saying, only that they were getting louder.

“Hello?” He called out, looked over his shoulder, doing a full three-sixty before realizing that they were, in fact, coming from his dollhouse.

He was moving, walking closer towards it. With a steady breath, he leaned in, trying to find the source of the noise. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a shadow dart from the top floor bedroom window inside the house. He heard bare feet thumping on wooden stairs, the sound of glass hitting granite, and the distant wailing of a little boy. It transformed into a scream so loud that he swore it was next to him.

More shadows began dancing around from the visible spots through the windows. Footsteps, running, crying—then silence. He breathed heavily for a moment before a shout startled him, and he could swear it came from the kitchen. No, the servant’s stairs.

“Malfoy!” Hermione broke his concentration, standing in the doorway. “I yelled for you nearly half-a-dozen times.”

“Sorry,” Draco spoke on labored breaths, shaking his head as he walked across the room.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard ‘sorry’ come out of you before.”

“It should be coming out of you,” he spat, locking eyes with her. “You’re late. You’re never late.”

“First time for everything.”

“I just want to get this over with.”

Hermione put her bag down and placed her scarf by her cloak. While she warmed her hands with a charm, Draco paced feverishly, trying to shake the feeling that was taking hold of him. Hearing voices was never a good sign.

“What are you doing?” He asked. Hermione was inspecting his house.

“Is something wrong with your dollhouse? She asked, peering through the windows. “You looked like something was troubling you.”

“Just admiring my handiwork. Pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

She scoffed, rolled her eyes, and made way back to her house. Hermione stopped for a second and looked over her shoulder. As they exchanged a curious glance, she shook her head and took a deep breath.

“Where did we leave off?” She asked.

_ Can she hear it too? _

Draco shook the thought from his head and reminded her about the roofing. They were nearly finished with the exterior, then a bit more work on the interior, and they’d be done. It just wasn’t soon enough for him.

Just as every other day, they spoke only when they needed to. She cleared her throat when they needed to cast, he huffed when she was doing something wrong. She smirked when _ he _did something wrong. Just about as non-verbal as you can get. Before long, they were both withdrawn and lackadaisical. It felt like their sessions were getting less and less efficient.

Hermione placed two restorative potions on the table, and slid one over to him. Before he could raise his brow at her, she was halfway done with hers. He stuck up his nose and stared.

“Really?” She rolled her eyes. It seemed to be a new habit she formed around him. “I just didn’t want you to be dead tired for rounds. Then I’d have to pick up the slack.”

He continued to stare.

“You really think I’d poison you? I need you for the project. I’m pretty sure a dead partner would mean a half grade.” She scoffed, receiving her answer in the form of silence. “Look,” she reached for it, popped the cork off and took a quick sip before licking the remnants off of her lips. “See? Not dead.”

He couldn’t avoid it. Fatigue was ruining him, and if he was being honest with himself, he doubted Granger would pick killing him over her grades. Without saying a word, Draco reached for the potion and let out a long sigh before bringing it to his lips. Before he drank the last drop, he could feel the exhaustion lifting from his body like a sickness being cured.

“See?” She taunted.

“What I see is that we have rounds in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll catch up to you,” Hermione said rather abruptly. “I’ve a few things to inspect on my house.”

“Perfectionist.” He sputtered before heading for the door. Only, Draco wasn’t really leaving—he wouldn’t trust Granger to be alone with his dollhouse for any length of time. On top of that, what could she possibly check without his half in the tandem spells? She had to be trying to get ahead somehow.

_ What are you up to? _

Draco grabbed his bag, opened the door, closed it, and remained in the room. Leaning against the wall, he watched as Hermione dug through her bag with haste.

_ She’s always trying to best me. We’ll be finished weeks before everyone else. We’ve added more detail and optional spells to this than I’m certain anyone else is doing. There’s something seriously wrong with this girl. Why can’t she just leave it be? It’s like she can’t stand being the best, she has to beat herself over and over again. _

Plucked from his thoughts, Draco saw her bare, scarred wrist pull out a book, _ the _book that she lost for both of them in the library. She was hiding something from him. Trying to get an edge.

_ I shouldn’t have underestimated her. We’re nearly done with the project—what is there to gain from this now? Has she had the book all along? She has to have done something to the tandem spells; I knew they were getting too simple. There’s no reason for her to be sneaking this around… unless she’s so hell-bent on besting me that she’s willing to cheat. That day at the library, she said “ _ You just couldn’t deal with being bested, could you? _ ”—she’s doing it, being the annoying bookworm that she always is, trying to show everyone that just because she’s a mudblood, she isn’t inferior. Clever little witch. She thought she could pull one over on me, like a fool. _

“Cheat.” Draco spat as Hermione spun around. “Just couldn’t help yourself, could you? We’re nearly done, and you turn to cheating.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sighed, turning back to the book.

“I’m speaking to you, Granger,” Draco growled. “Face me.” He walked beside her, fists curled by his side as the veins in his neck throbbed with rage. “Look at me!”

“Busy.” Hermione spoke so softly she almost whispered, her eyes scanning the page. Draco slammed her fingers in the center of the book as he shut the cover. “Malfoy! That hurt, what the hell?”

“You look at me when I’m speaking to you.” The intensity in his grey eyes almost startled her. Draco was walking in _ his _shoes; history was repeating itself, and it was his fault. As he exhaled, his anger began to deflate. He took a step back.

“Something’s not right.” She said.

“I… I’m s—”

“Not about that. The houses.” Hermione gulped hard, turning to her dollhouse. “I can… hear voices, Draco. The house is whispering to me.”

_ It’s not just me. I thought I was losing it. _

“You’re insane.”

“No I’m not,” Hermione stood her ground. “Because I’m not the only one hearing them. Yours is speaking to you, too.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m positive it’s normal.”

“Anything but. Here on page two-forty—”

“Where did you get the book? _ When _did you get it back?”

“On page two-forty, there’s a warning.” She pointed to a worn page after reopening the book, one that had clearly been visited by past readers more than any other. In neat, handwritten script, it said the following:

_ “After many attempts to bypass the charms, I’ve found that it’s far too simple to lose track of time. I could have sworn I entered this room during daylight, and apparently I was gone long enough that Dumbledore had to come looking for me. The hours feel like minutes. The problem with this strand of magic is that it takes from you when you don’t give to it. I’ve worked out a seal to lock the house and return energy to the caster, but it’s tricky. No spells were used to animate these materials, yet without my command, the shadows grow ever restless. Before sealing this house, I could hear thousands of loud whispers in my dreams, during classes; no time was sacred. To all students and professors reading this book in the hopes of understanding this magic, heed my warning: seal your dollhouse the very second that the voices begin. It doesn’t end there. Under no circumstances should anyone attempt the spell on this page.” _

“That’s Professor McGonagall’s handwriting.” Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out the charmed paper from the date of the assignment. He held the parchment to the page—an exact match.

“That explains the ‘pace yourselves’ speech every single day. What does the spell do?”

Hermione began to read from the original page text:

“When dealing with imagination manipulation of any degree, the caster(s) must remain careful of what my colleagues and I have described as the Rebound Sap. Opening yourself to this magic requires sacrifice, as you know by now, but it should require no more than you are willing to give it. Still, one cannot be too careful—we’ve developed an analytical spell of sorts, one that diagnoses the state of your tethered object(s). Explaining the exact effects have proven… difficult to put into words, depending on the objects used. According to the second experiment (pg. 134), your spells respond differently to the primary material in the toy, household furniture, and/or gargoyle that you have enchanted. For single casters, ensure a lifeline companion will supervise the spell. For tandem casters, perform in the audience of witches and wizards with equal or greater understanding of imagination manipulation magic. See spell below to initiate the diagnostic charm.”

The voices were getting louder. They both turned to their dollhouses, then back to one another.

“Draco, there’s something wrong here. This is beyond mild animation; they’re practically breathing.”

“McGonagall seemed to find her way out of it rather fine,” he smirked, then his face turned sour. “Wish she hadn’t.”

“She was a single caster. There’s no description on what happens when the spell is amplified by dual users.”

“Get your wand.” Draco placed his bag back down to retrieve his, getting into position while Hermione started to protest.

“You can’t possibly be this daft.”

“Try me.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Neither is what we’re both hearing. Perform the check. Ready your wand.”

Every terrible thought that he should have had simply didn’t pass through his mind. She dodged questions, she was clearly trying to retain an advantage. An analysis would likely do two things: stop the voices, and divulge any secrets she may have added.

“It’s not a good idea,” she scoffed, clearly battling with herself.

“They put you in the wrong house.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mighty Gryffindors are supposed to be brave; what’s happened to you? We’re both so bloody exhausted from this; if we perform the spell, you won’t need rejuvenation potions any longer. Deal with it before this thing gets out of hand and we start hearing it in our own dreams.” The whispers were growing louder in his ears, multiplying by the second, and he’d bet that hers were doing the same.

“You’ve got an angle,” she scowled, “you _ always _have an angle.”

“We’ve gone too far to bring McGonagall into this. She’ll do nothing but lecture us, dock points, and give us another speech about how we just can’t seem to work together. I’m sick of the patrinization from that old hag. Do you want to look like a nonsensical half-wit in front of your house master?”

“I… I don’t—”

“Exactly. You don’t. You can’t bear the thought, and we both know it. She’ll be so disappointed in how drastically you’ve failed.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Make me.”

“Stop it. They’re getting louder.”

“Silence them!” Draco shouted over the noise, the sounds of screaming and slamming rushing through his head like a freight train. Hermione’s hands lay on her temples, trying to cancel the beating rhythm of whatever her house was seeding into her ears.

She slammed her hands down on the table, rattling both houses. Hermione closed the book and placed it in her bag just before retrieving her wand, and glaring at Draco like a basilisk.

“Rounds are in ten minutes.” She spoke through gritted teeth, the agitation clear in her voice.

“It’ll take one.”

They each stood on opposing sides of the dollhouse table, as if prepared to duel. Wands at the ready, they began weaving them through the air like paintbrushes on a canvas. This unorthodox spellcasting method for imagination manipulation felt more like a dance; it took time to master.

“Somnium,” they began with gentle movements high above them.

“Subcinctus,” they chanted, wands moving in sharp zigzag formations parallel each other.

“Inspicere,” they spoke, their arms moving rapidly in a violent motion.

It went silent. Their eyes widened at one another—it was deafeningly silent, like an explosive ringing in their ears that cancelled out all noise. He could see her mouthing his name, he could feel his hands drained of blood, pins and needles spiking through his skin. Draco felt lightheaded. Before inevitably collapsing, he witnessed Granger do the same, whacking her head off the edge of the table before hitting the floor.

_ Fuck me _—the familiar feeling of port key apparation tugged at his midsection just before the lights went out.

He didn’t know how long it had been, he only knew the familiar feeling of grass beneath his back, the uneven earth as a pillow under his neck. Draco opened his eyes to see the crisp blue sky above. Something else was in his field of view: a picket fence with uneven brush strokes.

Draco cautiously lifted his head, only to see the peak of Hermione Granger’s dollhouse. Only, it wasn’t a dollhouse, it was lifesize and right in front of him. There were no neighbors, there was no gentle wind rolling by, and there was no way out of this little bubble.

After aiming his wand at the edges around the front yard, Draco Malfoy quickly came to a realization. His magic wouldn’t work, and nobody else, apart from the unconscious girl whom he hated with all his heart, knew where he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, we're four chapters into this - we're finally at the dollhouse. For those of you returning from the last chapters, it's looking like Saturday evening will be my usual posting time. Thank you for reading, and at this point in Dollhouse, I'd really like to know where you think this is going, what you hope to see, and how you're enjoying the story.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and bookmarks.
> 
> No beta. All mistakes are my own.


	5. Chapter Five: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione awakes in a cold haze directly in front of the Malfoy manor, or at least, a magical replica of it. She thinks to use every power at her disposal, until realizing that she is at the mercy of the dollhouse. Time to see what's really behind the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lapse between the last update and this one. Thanks for sticking with it. Real life got a bit heavy for a minute, and I didn't want to post just for the sake of posting - I wanted it to be as good as I knew it could be. To make it up to you, I'll be posting another chapter tomorrow to get us back on track. Let me know what you think. Thanks again for your support.

_ Thud. Thud. Thud. _

That’s all there was. No light, no other sounds, only the feeling of temples on fire in a hard pulse. Hermione began to wake, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, feeling the warmth of sunlight on her face. Her consciousness came back steadily, like the buzz of a distant insect growing closer until it’s right in your ear.

She sighed, feeling the pounding on the side of her head. The last thing she remembered was casting a spell with Draco, then everything went black.

_ Calm yourself... You can get up, just start by opening your eyes. _

Talking herself through it, Hermione gently opened her eyes to see the bright blue sky above. Blinding light taunted her concussion, forming bile in the pit of her stomach as it threatened to spew out.

Rolling onto her stomach, she felt warm pavement on her palms, and heard the most peculiar sound: absolute silence. She was outside, no doubt, but there wasn’t a single bird singing, nor the familiar hum of bustling life. Dead silence.

_ The dollhouse… this, this fucking ridiculous project. _

Hermione couldn’t get up, not yet, so she settled for sitting. There she was, in the middle of a long stretch of paved road, with a big black blight of a building on the horizon. It was Malfoy Manor, complete with the cursive  _ M  _ on the black iron gate, the tall hedges, and those horribly archaic spires.

Then the panic set in. She could deduce most situations with Sherlock-like wit, which usually meant trying the most obvious and seemingly simple solutions before jumping to conclusions.

First, her wand. Hermione figured (or at least hoped) Draco must be trying to cast the same spell on the outside. She flicked her wand, then again, then for the nineteenth time before realizing that nothing was happening. She couldn’t even perform a simple healing charm.

“Malfoy!” She shouted. “Can you hear me? Can you get me out of here?”

Silence. Deafening silence.

_ He can’t hear me. He’s not even in the Room of Requirements anymore. Better yet, he doesn’t even know I’m in here, and neither does anybody else. Nobody knows that I took that book… at least, not yet. Okay, okay I’m here, I can’t use magic, and as far as I know, I’m stuck. _

She hyperventilated as a very intricate thought passed through her mind regarding oxygen, and if it would run out in this little place. That didn’t help. She breathed harder, feeling the rush of blood in her head and wincing in agony.

Hermione grazed her palms along the road, then crawled over to the side of it to feel the grass. She clutched a few blades of it before realizing that they were very still, like paper mache. She tried to look up to the sky, but there were no clouds, no sign of the sun moving overhead or indication of time of day.

_ Stand up and walk. Touch the gate, then get to the front door. You’re not going to solve anything just sitting here. I can’t hear any whispering, so that’s a good sign. I’ll just find what’s wrong with Malfoy’s dollhouse, and then it’ll free me. That’s how it has to work. It has to. _

On wobbly steps while cradling her head, she crossed the gap to the slightly ajar front gate. Everything on the inside was manicured to perfection. The shrubbery, flower beds, even the hedges were perfect. If the enormous size of the lot wasn’t enough, they must have had multiple house-elves to maintain it, not to mention the bed of exotic herbs in organized rows along the far side of the fence.

Her parents did well, but the yard alone was easily worth double their annual salary. It was excessive; it was greed in its purest form. Nobody needed this. The distractions were helping; she thought of potions that could be made from expensive ingredients, how she would have loved a yard this large to play in as a girl.

Just before she reached the front door, she took one last broad look at the manor; dark, massive walls and intricate stonework, a marvel of ominous, elegant design. Her stomach plummeted as she concocted a rather unsettling thought: she was likely the only muggleborn to ever set foot on this property, and now she was going to enter their home. Despite it being a dollhouse—a mockup of the actual thing—it felt wrong being there.

She kept prickling her palms with the tips of her nails. Hermione raised her hand to knock on the door before laughing at herself, releasing a deep breath, and turning the knob on the big walnut door. She expected the door to creak open, but instead, it swung open perfectly—subtle details, like the well-maintained hinges just showed her how many small, seemingly unnecessary memories really went into making a dollhouse.

There was this aura of magic around the home, but it didn’t feel like somewhere that people would live. It was cold. While the Weasley’s were all cramped in a rickety little house, at least that place felt alive. She couldn’t imagine growing up in a place like this. The dark oak floors led to a beautiful, ornate staircase and contrasted against the potted plants, while various stonework in the home stuck out against the cream-colored walls in the foyer.

Hermione took one step into the entryway, and then she wished she hadn’t. Twenty paces ahead, a house-elf popped into existence.

“Hello,” she said warmly, flashing a quick smile. It didn’t even turn in her direction. “Hello there?”

Hermione cautiously stepped closer. Still no response. She went to speak again, but quickly stopped as she noticed something unsettling.

There was no texture to its face. The whole creature was too stiff, and it wasn’t breathing. Its pursed lips looked painted on, as did its eyes. Hermione gulped as she viewed the rigid lines on its elbows, the way they were bent at a perfect angle, and the fact that its bare toes were, well, not toes at all, but painted lines on a big foot.

Shivers ran down her spine as she came to the conclusion that this thing in front of her was in fact a doll. A life-sized, eerie-as-hell doll. All she could hear were her own footsteps echoing in the entryway, riddled with the feeling of every muggle horror movie she’d ever seen.

As hermione approached the doll, she grazed the back of her hand against its wooden face.

_ I wonder why this is... _

Before her curiosity could take her any farther, the front door swung open. Narcissa Malfoy strutted through the front door with a young Draco behind her, only they weren’t real—more dolls. Their faces didn’t move, but their bodies were so well animated, you’d think they were the real thing.

Two more house-elves came in behind them, carrying bags and luggage that were obviously too heavy for them. Hermione snapped back around to see the house-elf in front of her had begun to move.

“Good evening Mistress,” the house-elf said, though its lips did not move. “How was your journey?”

Narcissa dropped her coat on top of the house-elf’s head and continued to walk. Hermione jumped to the side, directly out of their path. They were dolls; they didn’t see her, they didn’t know she was there.

Narcissa was draped in abhorrently expensive attire. Even as a mannequin, her strut had this posh, pompous vibe to it. She was the textbook definition of a perfect aristocrat, and it left a sour taste in Hermione’s mouth.

“Those books will be wonderful for your studies next year at Hogwarts.” Narcissa said over her shoulder with Draco trying to match her pace.

The voice seemingly came from the four corners of the room like speakers at a concert. Narcissa’s mouth didn’t move, making it all the more creepy. Hermione quickly followed behind them as they travelled down the hallways to the parlor.

In the back of the room, a roaring fire cackled loudly while the sound of wind rattled against the windows. The parlor was massive. There was an enormous grandfather clock next to a tall archway, tall stairs to the second floor, and one drunken Mr. Malfoy draped over the naked body of a woman who was very clearly not his wife.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Draco’s words weren’t expected, but they weren’t out of turn either. The only sound that persisted for the next moment was the woman gathering her things, covering herself, and quickly making for an exit.

Before he could continue, Narcissa’s palm met the side of his face, shocking even Lucius.

“You will not disrespect your father,” she stated calmly, as if she weren’t in a state or emotional distress. “Upstairs. Now.”

Draco’s footsteps echoed, filling the silence while his parents locked eyes with one another. The boy held a hand to his bright red cheek, wearing a look of betrayal. Of everyone in his life, Draco never expected this from his mother, and that was plain to see.

Draco rounded the corner upstairs, but Hermione could see that he was standing close by, listening to everything. At some point, Narcissa had made her way over to the drink cart by her husband. She poured herself some firewhiskey and quickly chased it down, smashing the glass down on the silver tray as she poured a second one.

_ Clack. Clack.  _ All that could be heard were her heels on the hardwood as she approached Lucius. Hermione hadn’t seen the man often, but every time she had, he was in control of the room. In control of his son. For once, she could feel his fear; she could feel Narcissa’s eminent hold over the situation.

“I knew about the whores, Lucius,” she said before taking a quick sip from her glass. With a flick of the wrist, she sent it hurling into the fireplace, the sound of shattering glass catching his eye as a puff of fire consumed the alcohol. When his focus returned to his scorned wife, her wand was pressed to his throat. “Never in  _ my  _ home, Lucius. Keep your affairs in line,” she said while pressing the wand further into his neck. Lucius swallowed hard. “Or I’ll be forced to settle mine.”

Hermione had never heard such a calm, upper class threat deployed so perfectly. It was the epitome of everything Slytherin she could think of. Pure venom laced with sugar.

_ Is this a memory playing out in the dollhouse, or is this the dollhouse playing? How far have we gone? I didn’t have time to read the entire book, but… it didn’t have anything like this. It didn’t… _

Hermione peered up from her thoughts to see the Draco doll peeking around the corner. Narcissa and Lucius seem to have disappeared almost as quickly as the house-elf had appeared in the entryway.

_ The scene’s over, I suppose. _

“Granger,” the Draco doll spoke, only it didn’t sound like the little boy whom had entered the house. She could have sworn the lips moved. Its painted eyes were somehow staring right through hers, directly into her soul. She froze. “Granger,” it said again.


	6. Chapter Five: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's dollhouse wasn't the only one to come alive. Upon walking through Hermione's home, Draco begins to see just how intolerant muggles can truly be.

It was disgustingly plain.

Boring outside color. No life to the garden. No spires. Could you even call it a house? Sure, anything was better than that hobble of a shack that the Weasley’s lived in, but this… this is what he should have expected miss prim and proper to have come from.

Without hesitation, Draco turned the knob and walked inside. He thought about kicking the door in for a moment, but didn’t want to listen to her if it actually maimed her project.

Everything was bright and cheery, from the choice of wall coloring, to the throw pillows on the bench by the front door. Gleaming silver picture frames dotted the hallway, catching his attention as he trekked on through.

In each photograph, they somehow managed to tame that ridiculously frizzy hair of hers. She looked flawless in all of them, and if there was one thing Draco knew, it was that pictures only ever show the best side of you. She didn’t look that chipper in real life.

No one did.

The living room was on the right. It was exactly the type of place you’d walk into and feel alienated, like nobody actually lived here, they were just staging their lives in the most immaculate way possible.

_ Little miss perfect. Why did I expect anything other than this? _ But something about this place unnerved him, a perfect house for a perfect grade—sure he understood the concept, but this... this feeling creeping over him said there was more. The dollhouse was made from memories, from the little fleeting thoughts we didn’t realize we held onto, such as the creak of the floor in some spots or the texture of paint on the walls. _ If this is how she remembers her home, as a sterile environment, then all I have to do to get out of here is find something out of place. Like some sort of a test. _

He walked into the kitchen—the most likely spot in the house to have something amiss—and stopped to take a look around. There were dainty white teacups on the counter, wind chimes in the backyard through the glass door (as if anyone genuinely used wind chimes), and a circular table in the center of the room with three chairs.

Then they weren’t just chairs. Within the blink of an eye, three people appeared seated with a pot of tea, and blank expressions on their faces.

“Merlin’s beard!” He shouted, clutching his chest. “Where the hell did you all come from?”

There was no response. Nobody moved.

“Hello there?” Draco waved his hand in front of the face of the person sitting closest to him. Their back was turned to him, and they didn’t move a muscle. It wasn’t until he went to remove his hand that he heard something, and leapt back. It wasn’t coming from anyone in particular, but instead, it felt like the room was breathing, like it was speaking.

“I can assure you that I’ll have everything under control,” a burly man’s voice said. “In all my years, I’ve never met a child I couldn’t help.”

“That’s what we need to hear, Mr. Hammond.” The woman at the table said.

Two people had spoken, but of the two that Draco could see, nobody’s lips were moving. In fact, nobody had blinked, and the closer he got, the more he realized that they didn’t exactly look like people. They didn’t have any lines to their face, and their joints were all messed up with gaps in between them.

_ Their faces aren’t moving. Those voices are coming from magic, like a memory… like a play or something. Why would she add dolls to her house? Extra credit? _

“Hermione, dear, would you stop that racket?” A third voice said. The voice brokered no argument.

There she was, little Hermione Granger, sitting on a counter across the room and banging her feet against the cabinet drawers. He couldn’t make out her expression, but those mannequin arms were crossed, and she didn’t appear pleased. Draco couldn’t quite explain it, but the room had a feel to it, like he could understand the emotions of everyone around him.

Nobody was happy.

_ Those must be her parents, and the man with the moustache appears to be this Mr. Hammond fellow. The man seems like a mind healer of sorts, or what do those muggles call it? A… therapist, I think. _

“I see here that several others have ceased working with your daughter for…” A pause lingered. “Various reasons.”

“Yes, well, she’s…”

“I’m different,” Hermione said. Her voice was almost mousey, but still held that Gryffindor courage; she couldn’t have been older than seven at the time.

“You’re strange,” Mr. Hammond insisted. “You think the things you can do make you special— they don’t. They make you stand out, a weird little girl with no friends. Alone in this world. You want friends don’t you dear? You want people to like you; not be terrified of the monster you know you are. You don’t understand it, but with my assistance, we’ll fix it. Fix you, before you drift too far from normal.”

“What are you prattling about, Mr. Hammond?” Mrs. Granger asked. Her voice was cold. There was no concern for her little girl, only concern for herself. She clearly just wanted this all to stop.

“I know of methods to stop this abhorrency in its tracks. I suggest medication.”

The teacups shattered, erupting like fireballs from the table, sending porcelain across the room and into the ceiling. Draco raised his arm to shield himself from the shards, and when the porcelain rained down on him, his robe sleeve was actually torn. He took a step back.

The mannequin turned to the side while in its chair, looking across the room at Hermione. _ He’s vile. I can tell. They didn’t set her up with help; they sicced a magic-hating bastard after her. _

“Medication _ will _control it.” Mr. Hammond insisted, completely unshaken from what had just happened. Draco could hear a faint sound of Mrs. Granger whimpering, like she was terrified of what her daughter truly was. Accidental magic was something to be revered, not treated like this.

The two front legs of Mr. Hammond’s chair snapped in an instant, and the doll fell to the floor on its back. Though its face was stuck on the same expression, Draco could hear chuckling. It was ominous.

“Dear child,” he huffed, getting to his feet. “Continuity isn’t going to make this any easier for you. Do you really think that’s going to scare me off? I’ve dealt with your kind before, and now they live perfectly normal lives with none of these… outbursts.”

“What did you do for those other children?” Mr. Granger pried. “What will happen to her if medication doesn’t work?”

“The medication is only the first step. Once we have her calm, it will be easier for her to come to terms with her condition. I have therapy sessions that set out to reprogram her mind. It will take time but she will come to see that being compliant makes it a painless process.” 

It was easy for Draco to pinpoint the threats in Mr. Hammonds’ words.

_ How can muggles hatred of magic run so deep that even when they don’t know what it is, they try to eradicate it? As if those other children were “cured.” They probably just got good at hiding it. _

They stopped talking. In a matter of seconds, the three dolls at the table vanished into thin air right before his eyes. Whatever had just happened, it was over.

Hermione still sat on the counter, arms crossed, looking eerie and lifeless. Draco couldn’t help but approach it, snapping his fingers to garner its attention, to no avail.

“Granger?” He asked out loud. “Granger?”

“Malfoy?” The doll spoke back, but it wasn’t coming from the four corners of the room—it was her voice, her fifth year sounding voice.

“What’s happening? Are you outside?”

“I’m stuck in your dollhouse. My magic won’t work.”

“Neither will mine. Listen, I don’t know about you, but I think the dollhouses are playing with us. We need to figure this thing out quickly. Look for something, anything that's out of place.”

Her doll vanished. Draco was on his own. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I promised another chapter tonight, so here it is. If you find this story entertaining or at the very least, interesting, please do leave a comment to put some wind in my sails to keep writing it. I love the way the story is headed, and I hope you do too. Thanks for reading.


	7. Chapter Six: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With far too much ground to cover, Hermione begins to work out a plan to get her and Draco out of this mess.

“Malfoy?” Hermione called as his doll vanished into thin air right in front of her. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Releasing a series of quick breaths, she thought about that oxygen dilemma again, then realized that it would take her an eternity to use up all the air in this massive mansion. She’d just seen something play out that looked so real, yet from a backstage view.

_ Okay. He said I have to find something out of place.  _ Hermione thought, steadying her breath.  _ How would I know what’s out of place? It’s not my house. Well, how does he even know something is out of place? How would he know what’s wrong? Maybe that’s not it at all. Perhaps the dollhouse has more for me to see… and it might let me go once it’s shown me everything. _

With a newfound vigor, Hermione dashed off towards every closed door she could find. This place was enormous, and with every door she opened, she found more alarmingly large depths to this cold-feeling home. Every time she entered a new area, she huffed a little bit louder.

It felt like there was no end in sight. Her anxiety quickly churned into a simmering anger—just how much did a family of three actually need? Everything was museum-level quality, like their whole lives were behind glass, too pristine to be touched or truly seen without a filter in the way.

One room was a parlor with a grand piano. The next was a dining room—a second dining room at that. Then there was a library, one she promised herself she would find a way back to if given the chance. Another parlor (correction: a sitting room). Servant’s stairs. Bedroom. Guest bedroom. More bedrooms.

_ There has to be another scene here, something else that’s going to come to life.  _ Hermione froze in place as a cold sweat broke out.  _ He’s in my house… and the dolls are moving, they’re animated, they have voices he’s never even heard before. What has he seen? What if he’s already found another sequence and I’m just fumbling around in the dark? What if we miss our chance to talk again? _

Boom. She shoved a door open with great force, feeling the wind kick back and rustle through her hair. Nothing here. Nothing except the aching in her head pounding away like hammers on glass.

_ He’s right—damn McGonagall for giving us this blasted project in the first place. What a right shit show it’s been.  _ She breathed heavily while biting the inside of her cheek as she paraded down yet another corridor. A drop of blood brushed against her teeth.  _ Damn her warnings. Why couldn’t she have just said what she wrote down in the book? Why be so bloody cryptic about everything? If this project is so dangerous, if it can suck you in like this, why is it suitable for students to be dabbling in? This reeks of poor planning; downright negligence. _

She slammed her shaky palms through another door, sending it flying on the swinging hinge. It crashed into a rather expensive looking vase as she scoffed at why anyone would put a vase behind a swinging door in the first place.

Another room filled with expensive, unimportant garbage.

_ Why did I let Malfoy talk me into this? I was exhausted, but that’s no excuse. I went against my own judgment.  _ Her heels were sore from the incessant stomping as she trudged down every hallway and around every corner.  _ I should have never stolen that book out of her office. I thought it would make the voices from the dollhouse stop. I needed them to stop, and now I’m stuck here. _

With a hand on each knob, Hermione swung two lavish looking doors inward, and her thoughts dissipated in an instant. Lucius Malfoy—or at least, the embodiment of him in a wooden doll—was pulling on the opposite side. Before she had a second to turn her head and question what was going on, his curled fist came flying at her.

Holding onto the doorframe to brace herself, she dipped her head to the right as his arm flew past her ear. With a loud thud, it connected with the wood behind her.

Hermione turned over her shoulder to see a slightly older Draco doll laying flat on the floor after colliding with the expensive tile. She missed that punch by an inch, maybe less.

Second year. She could tell by the distinct details of the face, the snooty little nose that was somehow still turned up even though he lay staring up at the ceiling. The entire doll was more realistic, more defined than the ones in the parlor those few hours ago. His eyes shot open. They weren’t just painted on anymore, and the view was unsettling.

“Worthless.” Lucius growled as his foot came flying towards Draco, hitting him in the ribs. “Came in second to a mudblood.”

Hermione could hear the pain in the voice that followed. “I’ll do better, father,” Draco coughed, but it didn’t mean a damn thing to the bastard standing over him. “I can do—”

“Nothing! You can do nothing while you continue to disgrace and defile the Malfoy name.” Lucius sighed, leaning back and looking up to the ceiling. She almost believed that his rage had subsided for a moment, right up until he let out a guttural laugh. “You can do nothing, boy.”

Lucius bent down and leaned in very close to Draco, close enough that Hermione stooped down to get a better look.

“Sometimes…” Lucius began. “Sometimes, I wonder if you’re even mine.”

If only it ended there. Instead, he began to wail on the boy.

“Stop it!” Hermione shouted until her voice cracked. “Leave him alone!”

Lucius visibly began losing control. She could see the lack of remorse in his eyes, the way he didn’t give a damn about what he was doing to his son.

With one loud echoing crack—a sound of bone hitting flesh—Lucius stopped his assault. The boy was unconscious; another hit wouldn’t give him any satisfaction. He disappeared into the study for a moment, grabbed the half-full glass from his desk, and began icing his bloodied knuckle before stepping over Draco’s unconscious body and walking away.

Hermione dropped to her knees before gathering Draco’s head in her lap. His face looked horrific, but as she ran her fingers through his hair, she realized that it felt like normal hair. It felt so lifelike that for a moment, she forgot that this was a doll. It wasn’t real, but the tears threatening to drip down her cheeks were.

_ It’s a memory. It’s a terrible, terrible memory… but it’s not really happening now.  _ She had to get a grip. With one hard gulp, she stopped the feeling of tears.  _ This is dangerous. Everything feels more realistic as time passes by. These dolls had facial expressions, human-like animated movements, more life to their voices—it’s either because they’re more recent memories, or the magic is getting stronger. This place is taking more and more from Draco… I imagine mine is as well. _

The Draco doll didn’t disappear. It was still in her lap, yet the echo of Lucius’ footsteps were long gone. She couldn’t quite remember when they stopped, but this was just like before.

“Draco,” she commanded. “I know you can hear me. I need you to listen very, very carefully.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten a lot of feedback on the last chapter, and I have to say, it's been very helpful and wonderful to read. I have so much more planned for all of you to read. Thanks for sticking with me so far, and I hope the rest of Dollhouse meets, and hopefully exceeds your expectations.


	8. Chapter Six: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories. Monsters. What's the difference at this point? Draco and Hermione discover far too much about each other, and they know there's more to come.

“Alright,” Draco muttered while staring at the spot where Hermione’s doll disappeared from. “Okay. That just happened. I think. And now I’m talking to myself.”

_ The porcelain is gone. Everything that broke in that little act disappeared along with the dolls. Something still has to be out of place. _ Draco looked to the slice in his robe, which was very much still there. _ Doesn’t make any sense. Nothing’s broken, but my robe is shredded. The memories don’t affect the surroundings… only me. That can’t be good. _

“Do let us know if you need anything before we leave,” Draco heard from the living room. A shiver ran down his spine before he could carry on with his thoughts and theories.

Walking through the door that he first entered the kitchen by, he saw an older Hermione—either nine or ten—sitting on an armchair, facing a rather serious-looking Mr. Hammond directly across from her in a matching seat.

“We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Mr. Granger continued, shrugging on his polyester coat by the rack in the corner. Draco hung in the doorway, uncertain if he should walk between the dolls’ lines of sight.

Mrs. Granger entered the room, throwing on her scarf before releasing a deep sigh.

_ Why can I hear her breathing? _

Before he could mentally comment on how the Grangers’ faces looked more animated and alive, Hammond ever so gently placed his teacup down on the saucer on the coffee table in front of him. That delicate little pitter-patter of a sound sent a jolt running through Hermione’s legs, up to her shoulders where she shook in place.

_ It’s been years… what is he still doing here? She made it pretty clear before that she wasn’t putting up with any of his shit. _

Hermione was furiously jittering her leg while her parents began making it down the hallway to the front door. In all this time, Hammond hadn’t moved at all, he’d just stared menacingly.

“Wait,” she let out. Her parents back pedaled into the parlor, stopping with a cold and unfeeling look on their faces. “Every time you leave, he hurts me.” Draco walked to a space between her and Hammond, looking at the expression of pure terror on her face. “Don’t leave me with him. I need you to stay. Please.”

In a moment like this, silence should never linger. With every second that passed, Draco felt bile in his gut, absolute disgust and disdain for the hesitation from her parents.

“Like I said,” Mr. Granger reiterated, “we’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“You’re still leaving?” Draco asked in disbelief. “Get back here!”

They made their way to the door, and closed it gently behind them. It’s as if they truly didn’t care one way or the other. Chasing them down wouldn’t do any good; Draco turned back to Hermione, at that pale complexion and cold sweat breaking out all across her face.

“I’m not afraid of you.” She let out, but the fluttering in her voice was plain as day.

“Yes you are,” Hammond smiled, “and you very well should be.”

Mr. Hammond leaned forward, and before he could even fully stand up, Hermione jerked out of her chair and made a beeline straight for the kitchen. Before Draco could even root for her to get away, Hammond leapt forward with speed that a man his size shouldn’t have. He quickly grasped onto Hermione’s forearm, jerking her back towards him. Her shoes scuffed the hardwood floor just outside of where the rug went, and all Draco could think is that somehow, she’d be blamed for that when her parents got home.

He tugged on her arm like it was a feather. The struggle in her grunts were clear, but this cold soul had obviously had too much practice to give a damn. Hammond slammed her arm down on the coffee table, spilling his tea on the rug on the opposite end. With his free hand, he retrieved a velvet roll from his coat pocket and laid it out over the table.

Hermione was knocked down to her knees, pulling on her arm with such force, Draco thought he might hear it pop out of place. He pulled up her long sleeve while scanning the tools like a fat man glares at a restaurant menu, picking his poison.

Draco stared at the lines of scars trailing from her elbow to her wrist like tally marks of the abuse.

_ This is what he’s been up to all these years. It’s been well over a thousand days since they met. A thousand times he’s brought steel to her skin. _

“We’re going to pick up where we left off,” Hammond sighed, as if he were already bored with the process. “Is magic real?”

She didn’t stop struggling. Hermione was kicking up the rug, trying to pull herself over the back of the nearby armchair; anything to get away from him. A few minutes of this passed, of her not giving up the fight, of Hammond rolling his eyes before the vein in his neck began to pop like a grape.

“Is magic real?” He growled.

“Yes!”

Hammond grabbed a scalpel from its spot in the velvet roll, and quickly brought it to her skin. In a full swinging motion, he let it graze her, barely scratching through the surface.

“Is magic real?”

“Yes!”

Another slash. This time, a bit deeper, forcing a scream from the girl as blood began to rise to the surface.

“Is magic real?”

“Yes!”

Another slice. Hammond sprayed a thin veil of blood against the wall—against Draco, coating his robe.

“Is magic real?”

Hermione got quiet. She stopped struggling. All that could be heard was her labored breath, like a child who wasn’t quite done on the playground yet—which is just what she was: a child. She stopped contorting her arm for a minute, bringing herself dangerously close to the behemoth carving lines into her skin.

“It’s as real as the blood on your knife.”

Hammond hesitated for a second. The room fell deadly silent. He smirked, then let out a brief chuckle. Hammond released her arm, much to her confusion, and pondered a moment.

“When an artist runs out of room to paint,” Hammond muttered just loudly enough that she could hear, “he gets a new canvas.”

He dropped the knife on the table, turned to his opposite side, and grabbed Hermione’s other arm. Her frail body looked like a ragdoll behind him as he slammed her arm on the table, the sleeve soaking up drops of blood before he pulled it up.

Fresh skin. No marks.

“Is magic real?”

“Magic is real, and I have it!”

One gash wouldn’t do. He didn’t graze the skin, he didn’t go gentle on her. Hammond slashed seven marks across her arm, carving up fresh flesh that hadn’t had a chance to develop scar tissue just yet. She didn’t shriek; she let out a grown-up type of shout, one that spilled agony into the air that stayed with you, like hearing the Hogwarts Express train whistle right next to your head on your first year.

“No,” Hermione whimpered, completely unprompted. “Magic isn’t real.”

“Finally: progress.”

Hammond disappeared. Vanished into thin air like the dolls did back in the kitchen. Hermione was still there, though the tears and audible pain had stopped. Her doll turned to look directly at Draco, her real-looking eyes locking with his. He gulped.

“Draco, I know you can hear me. I need you to listen very, very carefully.”

Fifth year voice.

“What is it?” he asked, hoping she could hear him, too.

“You’re there, which means we don’t have much time before they disappear again. We don’t need to look for anything out of place, Draco.”

“That pops a hole in my theory, then.”

“These are memories. I… I don’t know what you’ve seen, and I don’t quite want to know, but I do know that they’re getting more animated. More real. We’re going to continue running into these scenes, and one of two things is going to happen.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“The dollhouses will either show us all that they need to and spit us out, or…”

She lingered. Lingering was never a good sign.

“Or what?”

“Or it’s the end of the line.”

“I’m covered in your blood,” Draco choked out.

“I said I didn’t—”

“Our demons are on display, Hermione. I know how to handle mine; I don’t know how to deal with yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback on that last chapter, it was wonderful to see how many of you really love this story. It's helping me keep the gears in motion. Real life is a hassle, so I'm balancing this the best I can. I apologize for the inconsistency, but this won't be an abandoned work - we're seeing this through all the way to the end.
> 
> By now, you know that "Dollhouse" by Melanie Martinez helped ignite a spark that developed into what Dollhouse is now. From this chapter forward, if you're looking for a tune to go with Dollhouse, give "Monsters" by Shinedown a listen. It's a bit chilling when you put it all together.
> 
> Let me know what you guys think. Keeps those comments coming :)

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired in part by the song "Dollhouse" by Melanie Martinez. It was one of those instances where you just hear some really good lyrics, and everything blossoms from that point on. The current goal is to maintain once-weekly updates.
> 
> Tags may be altered or updated during future posts while this story progresses.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts/comments.
> 
> No beta. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> \- All credit to J.K. Rowling


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